


The Trials of Control

by Kaiserkorresponds



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Angst, Author Projecting onto Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker Friendship, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has EDS | Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist has POTS | Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, Medical Trauma, Mentioned Georgie Barker, Mentioned Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist's Grandmother, Past Abuse, Past Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Past Relationship(s), The Buried Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Buried is only mentioned, The Magnus Archives Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiserkorresponds/pseuds/Kaiserkorresponds
Summary: "What part of fine don't you understand?" Jon snapped, the building burn of frustration from the fall, and the pain, and the jealousy of seeing Tim's clear ableness, reaching a fever pitch and exploding into the bitter words. "I said, I'm alright."He drew in a inhale, fighting to pull it past the tightness in his chest and the still aching clench around his heart.A look of shock passed over Tim's face, before melting back into concern."Jon–""Don't. Just don't, Tim."--Jon being frustrated with his limitations and ableism. In this fic Jon has a combination of POTS/EDS and hasn't had great experiences with ableism in the past. [Tim is not ableist in this fic]
Comments: 35
Kudos: 194





	The Trials of Control

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vent fic, and does get a little rough in some places, so please do not read if it will be triggering <3 Also, all of it is based on my own personal experiences.

"Boss– Jon, are you okay?"

Jon forced his eyes open at the sound of Tim's voice, the motion itself aching and adding to the cacophony of pain already echoing off of every nerve. 

"I'm fine, Tim." He muttered. 

"Are you sure about that? Cause you're on the floor." 

Jon glared upward with as much heat as he could muster, forcing his vision to remain steady as the motion triggered the blurry static that had stranded him on the carpeting in the first place. 

"Yes, I am aware of that, Tim." 

Tim shuffled in the area above his vision, his jeans making a rough, almost scraping sound with the motion. 

"Is there anything I can do? Or get you? Cause this isn't exactly looking great from where I'm standing." 

He shifted his weight again in such an easy way that it brought a burning spark to Jon's chest. 

"I know we have paracetamol, or I could grab you some water? If you tell me where it is, I could get some of that nasty electrolyte stuff you're always drinking too." He paused. "For most people laying on the carpet isn't exactly a sign that they're all good." 

"What part of fine don't you understand?" Jon snapped, the building burn of frustration from fall, and the pain, and the jealousy of seeing Tim's clear ableness, reaching an abrupt fever pitch and exploding into the bitter words. "I said, I'm alright." 

He drew in a inhale, fighting to pull it past the tightness in his chest and the still aching clench around his heart. 

A look of shock passed over Tim's face, before melting back into concern. 

"Jon–" 

"Don't. Just don't, Tim." Jon snapped, angry, and irritated, and thickened by the salt pooling in his eyes. "I've done it all. I've done everything. I just– just leave me alone." 

There was a second of silence. 

Tim exhaled softly, and knelt down to where Jon was still laid out on the carpet. 

"Jon," He started, his voice far softer than before, and lacking the joking bite of most of his words. "What do you need? I won't suggest anything else, but you gotta tell me what to do here." 

"There isn't nothing more to do, Tim–" A thick, traitorous hitch to his breath broke the sentence. "I've done it all. The water, the salt, electrolytes, even– even the beta blockers and I'm still– still here." 

Uselessly, Jon smacked a palm off the ground, the sting of the ancient carpet mirroring the sting of the tears. 

"I'm still– here." 

"I know." Tim said, again so soft and pitying that it only stoked the angry fire burning inside his racing heart. 

"It's not my fault. I've done everything that is supposed to be done. I've tried it all. And now– I can't even do my job. Can't sit up in the chair long enough to." A chuckle broke through the tears, vicious, and acerbic, and bitterly sardonic. "Can't exactly record statements about nearly dying when I feel like it every time I stand up." 

Tim remained silent, merely crouching on the gritty carpet, and for once, not cracking an ill-timed joke or making light of his frustration. 

"What can I do, Jon?" 

Jon roughly swiped a hand through the tears blurring his vision. 

"Nothing. There's nothing more to do." 

"Not what I can get for you, or how to fix it." Tim said. "Just what can I do?" 

Jon stilled, abruptly processing the implications of that. 

"What?" 

"I can't really fix this, Jon." Tim waved a hand over his still prone form, one hand gripping the material of his sweater, and the awkward angle of his legs. "But what can I do to make it a bit more bearable?" 

"I–" 

The words fried a circuit that hadn't been touched in years. 

Every doctor, every friend, every partner had laser focused on the restoration of him back to his old self. The person who was physically capable. Not particularly strong or fit, but able to walk up a flight of stairs, or shower with the heat fogging up the mirror. 

His grandmother had been an advocate of management, as she'd called it. Forcing countless cups electrolyte mixes down his throat, along with handfuls of salt tabs, and dragging him to doctor after doctor. Fuming at the response that there was nothing truly wrong besides a malfunctioning nervous system, possibly some faulty genetic code if he had four years to wait on the test that was a dice roll as to whether it would show results. 

Georgie had tried to deviate from the pattern. She had tried so hard, before slipping back into the same rhetoric of counting each ounce of Gatorade, reprimanding him over lack of sodium, forcing him into trips to the A&E that ended with the burning fact that again there was nothing available. No miraculous cure, or effort he could make that would satisfy his faulty nerves. 

No way he could try harder, or be better, whether it was for his own relief, or for the relief of the people around him. 

"I– I don't know." He finally stuttered out, sticky tears halting and the twinge in his chest having nothing to do with the tachycardia. 

"How about your legs? That position can't be comfortable. I could prop them up for you? I mean–" Tim gestured to the absolute mess of the office. "You've got the world's capital of filing boxes 'round here." 

Jon nodded shakily, as far as he could lift his head without the static washing across his vision.

"That's– that would be fine." 

"Shooting for comfortable here, boss. Not just fine." A ghost of Tim's typical grin flashed across his face. "Here." 

He dragged one of the heavy boxes over the carpet and swiped across the top of it to remove the layer of dust. 

"Gonna move your feet a bit, alright?"

Jon nodded again. 

Tim nodded in return, before carefully levering his feet up from the grainy carpet and into the box. 

A sigh of relief escaped him before Jon could clamp down on it. 

"There we go." Tim said. "Anything else I can do? I've got some crisps if you'd like a snack down here." 

"No– no, thank you." Jon forced out, steeling his core for the rigid insistence that it wasn't a choice, but a requirement. 

Instead, his stomach fluttered as Tim simply leaned back on his heels and nodded. "Got it. Anything else you can think of?" 

Jon worked his jaw around a few inaudible syllables about the still so deeply ingrained fear of saying no, before clamping his jaw shut. 

"No, I'm alright." 

Tim nodded again, "Mind if I stay here then, boss? I promise I can still be productive, I just want to make sure you stay all good in here, or that I'll be around in case you need anything." 

Jon flapped a hand in what he hoped was an affirmative motion. 

"Yes, that's– that would be fine." 

Tim's face ghosted into a trace of another grin. "Got it, just let me pull up some emails here. We'll have some chill time on the floor." 

He lowered his voice and glanced in a comedic, almost childish way around the dingy office. 

"I've always wanted to work from the floor. Most bosses aren't cool with a hit the deck day though." 

Jon huffed out a chuckle. 

"Yes, well, it's not like I have a choice in the matter at this point."

"Course you do, boss." 

Jon flicked his gaze back up to Tim's face, the sudden shift in tone a glaring spot in the conversation. 

"You have a choice, Jon." He said, serious and again in that soft tone that Jon had before mistaken for pity. "If you don't want me to stay then I'll clear off. I'm gonna insist on you keeping the door open at least, and your phone in reach, but I'm not gonna force you into anything." 

The burn of salty tears blurred across Jon's vision for what felt as if it were the thousandth time since he'd fallen to the floor. 

"I– thank you, Tim." 

"No need to thank me for common decency, boss." Tim said, blessedly ignoring the sudden streaks of wetness down his cheeks. "Just tell me which statement we're investigating today, and I'll get right on those emails. As long as you haven't thought of something you'd like?" 

Jon shook his head faintly. "No, no. I'm still okay. I believe that we are looking at statement number 428579. It's a recollection of the statement giver's experience with being buried alive." 

Tim tapped against the glowing screen of his phone. "Got it, right here." 

He swiped a finger across the screen, humming almost inaudibly under his breath. "I'll get to work, alright? Let me know if you feel weird or you'd like something to drink."

Jon nodded, reeling internally with shock, and let the racing of his heart and the screaming ache in his head begin to recede in the silence.

Silence that for once was not fraught with tension, or pity, or blame, but rather comfort and companionship. 

After a quarter of an hour of recovering, he swallowed thickly and whispered a raspy, "Thank you."

Tim glanced down where he'd been typing on the screen, and simply nodded, the emotion in his eyes glowing under the blue lights. 

"Of course, Jon. No need to thank me."

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if this is a bit rough!!! I held off from posting it the night it was written bc I was in a bit of a bad place mentally, but I didn't want to edit it a lot bc it is a vent peice and I wanted it to still be gritty in the way I was feeling when I wrote it !!
> 
> Edit: Also it is totally cool to leave comments when I write fics like this !!! If it were truly too personal then I wouldn't have posted it <3


End file.
